He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. The island had evidently grown round this lagoon, approached it gradually from the volcanic upheaval—an island of coral and lava. " "Here he is!" cried Ireton, as the knocking was heard without. ‘Small wonder in a way that he found hisself consolation elsewhere. She knew it.
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